In A Pickle

The day it happened, palm trees rustled in the breeze, sounding like spring rain. A great blue heron froze, one foot tucked, waiting to spear breakfast with its beak. My husband Richard and I were bike riding on Tybee Island.

We took a right on Solomon Avenue — a sandy dirt road riddled with ruts and potholes. I inhaled deeply, smelling the sweet fragrance of jasmine as sweat trickled down my spine.

Sightseeing, I didn’t notice the hole. The front tire struck it with force. I bounced. Hard.

My left leg instantly felt like it was wrapped by a python — tight and stinging.

For days, needle-like pain radiated down my leg. My lower back felt like it was in a vice grip.

I consulted a back surgeon. I waited nervously on the exam room table for him to review my MRI. Crinkly white paper crunched when I moved as my legs dangled over the edge.

Entering the room, he scooted a stool over and sat at my knees. He explained that a disc in my lower back was crumbling, pinching the sciatic nerve. The bicycle jolt had irritated it.

“I’d recommend you avoid anything that would create stress on your spine,” he said.

“What about running, or biking, or skiing?” I asked him.

“You do so at the risk of permanently injuring the nerve,” he replied. The table under me was unforgiving. I squirmed to adjust my back and bottom.

No vigorous activities, I thought. For the rest of my life?

The room seemed to lose its air.

I was in my 60s, just retired. Hiking at Arches, skiing Park City, climbing the leaning Tower of Pisa, or a score of other adventures were activities that I hoped lived in my future. My chest tightened.

Driving through blinding rain to get home, I found Richard and told him the news.

“That seems really conservative, Wendy,” he said. “You’re a doctor. You know that lots of people have back issues but are still active.”

I grimaced. “I know in the scheme of things that this is not a death sentence. Many patients have much worse news,” I replied. “But this feels huge to me. I risk having no feeling in that leg. Or worse.”

The rain broke. A single sunray beamed through the kitchen window, creating a colorful prism on the oak floor. Richard looked at me, lowering his chin and raising his eyebrows. “Let’s get a second opinion,” he said gently. Limping over, I wrapped my arms around him.

We did. A fellow colleague agreed to see me and review the findings.

“Go do what you want,” he said after examining me and the x-rays. “I just wouldn’t recommend skydiving.”

I laughed. No problem there.

He continued. “In the future, you may need surgery, but this is not now. Your back will let you know when it’s time.”

I looked at him with my head cocked. My thinking is sometimes apocalyptic. Was this good news or bad?

“Wendy, this is good news,” Richard said, somehow reading my mind. “He said you can be active.”

Thrilled, but cautious, I returned to brisk walking combined with short intervals of easy jogs. The pain slowly resolved.

After months of steadily increasing my jogging segments, I decided to enter a 5K. I hoped this would serve to motivate me and stomp on my fear of nerve damage. Slower and heavier than college years, I looked like an Icelandic pony — stocky with short legs and a round belly, blonde ponytail flowing in the wind. But it didn’t matter to me. I was moving.

So, I signed up for the Pickle Run, a road and beach fundraising event on Tybee sponsored by a local pizza restaurant, Huc-A-Poos.

On the day of the race, I parked my car and walked towards blaring music. It was Saturday morning of Thanksgiving weekend. Richard was home, caring for guests. I came alone.

A light wind blew white and gray cumulus clouds through the sky. People laughed and chatted as they stretched. A few lean runner types sprinted to warm up.

I didn’t. I was conserving my energy.

The gun went off. The race was underway. During the first leg, I leisurely jogged near the middle of the pack. The course headed over a boardwalk, and then I found myself on the beach. Feet sinking into wet sand, my hips and knees barked.

I slowed to a brisk walk.

A middle-aged woman strode by me, towing a Jack Russell terrier on a leash. As the dog trotted to keep up, its four tiny legs were just a blur.

Hmm, just passed by a puppy.

I walked faster.

Then a big, green pickle passed me. A young lady, dressed in a full head-to-toe pickle costume, effortlessly loped by. The lower edges of her garment fluttered in the sea breeze.

Wait, a small dog and a pickle were beating me?

Straightening my body, I started to jog slowly again. Though I was grateful to run, each time I did, my body braced, expecting a wave of pain to splash down my leg.

At the same time, I grasped that I was losing to a four-legged runt. And a pickle! I didn’t get through medical school by not being competitive.

The course turned off the beach. Again, slowing to a walk, I climbed the weather-beaten wooden stairs. As my feet hit pavement, I resumed jogging.

I nearly tripped over the Jack Russell terrier who had made a sudden roadside potty break. At least I outdid the dog.

Ahead of me, the pickle’s fluttering green fabric caught my eye. Although my lungs were searing, I had to catch the costumed character.

I ran faster. One last kick. One last tremendous effort. Shoulder-to-shoulder with pickle girl. And at the very last moment, giving it all I had … a final surge.

So did the pickle. She beat me.

As we both stopped, I waved to her. “Great job,” I said, panting. “But you know, it’s humbling to be beaten by a fermented vegetable.”

She laughed breathlessly. “I thought I was going to die out there. I’m just glad I finished!”

“Me too,” I wheezed.

As I limped towards the car, my hip complained. I probed the skin over my joint. It was tender, but not over the nerve.

I was lapped by a dog and beaten by a pickle. That didn’t matter. I ran my race.